Nell: The First Day of Not Knowing

Two weeks after the launch, Rosa Bell asked me to telephone a bus company and I briefly forgot how a telephone worked.

I could call Kit while brushing my teeth. I could leave Taz a four-minute voice message about a sandwich. Presented with a landline, a company name and a reasonable question, I became a Victorian child encountering electricity.

Rosa watched me read the number for the third time.

“You're allowed to write down the first sentence.”

“I have.”

“You're also allowed to dial.”

I dialled.

The press release from my interview had become a real assignment: a short report about a proposed change to the evening service, supervised and checked before publication. I needed the current timetable, the proposed one, the consultation dates and a response from the company. I had three of those things. The response was proving shy.

When someone answered, I introduced myself and the Beacon, explained that I was on a placement and asked for the person handling the timetable proposal. I was transferred twice. The second person told me to email.

“I already have,” I said, more confidently than I felt. “Could you confirm the best address and whether someone can respond before our deadline?”

They could confirm the address. They could not promise the response.

I wrote down the time and the person's name, then put the receiver down as though it were a dangerous animal I had successfully returned to its enclosure.

Rosa looked up. “Still alive?”

“Unexpectedly.”

“Good. Try the council contact next.”

The week was not a montage of becoming a journalist. It was reading documents, checking spellings, making calls, being told to send emails and discovering how much of a clear paragraph depended on work the paragraph would never show.

I accompanied Rosa to a community meeting and took notes beside hers. Afterwards, she asked what I thought the main point had been. I told her the argument about the car park. She asked me to read the final decision again. The loudest part had not been the most consequential part.

I crossed out my proposed opening.

On Wednesday, I spoke to people at the bus stop with permission to quote them. One woman, Mrs Patel, used the late service after visiting her sister. A college student used it after a shift at the cinema. A man said the change wouldn't affect him and did not want his name included. I didn't try to turn his lack of concern into a dramatic opposing viewpoint.

The company eventually replied. Its response answered two questions and avoided the third. Rosa helped me phrase the follow-up so it asked for the missing information rather than accusing them of being evasive before I knew why.

At lunch, I called Kit from the square below the office.

“How's fame?” she asked.

“I have learned that a PDF can ruin a morning.”

“Important professional development.”

She was packing. I could hear tape pulling from a roll and her dad asking whether she really needed two desk lamps.

“Do you?” I asked.

“One's broken. I'm taking it apart for parts.”

“Of course you are.”

We were both pleased about things that made the remaining days feel smaller. I wanted to tell her every detail of the placement. I also wanted to stop time before her room became boxes. The two desires made me talk too quickly.

“Slow down,” she said, laughing. “I've got the whole lunch break.”

So I did.

On Friday, my short report was approved after several changes. The finished version was not the piece I'd first imagined. It was more precise, less pleased with itself and much better at telling a reader what would actually happen next.

My name appeared beneath it.

Rosa saw me looking.

“Enjoy that,” she said. “Then check the live version too.”

I checked every line.

The photograph was by Rory, the paper's part-time photographer, and his credit was visible. The company response was represented accurately. The consultation link went to the right place. A number I had nearly transposed was correct.

Only then did I send it to my family and Kit.

Dad replied with so many clapping emojis that the phone paused before displaying them all. Mum said she'd read it during her break. Ollie asked whether the bus would still take him to the cinema, which was the most direct editorial feedback I received.

Kit wrote: I understand the change now. Also, I'm proud of you.

I sat at the desk and let myself be happy without pretending the happiness wasn't partly about seeing my name.

Wanting that wasn't the whole problem. The problem was what I was willing to move out of the way to get it.

Before I left, Rosa asked about school and future plans. I told her I was still considering university and apprenticeships. She suggested a few kinds of experience to look for and told me to keep asking questions that couldn't be answered by copying a press release.

“Can I send you the flood-marker idea when I've checked the archive?” I asked.

“Yes. Send the question, not just the atmosphere.”

I wrote that down.

Outside, the hairdresser's sign swung in the wind. The town looked exactly as it had on Monday: buses, bins, people buying lunch, a woman arguing with a parking machine. I had not become somebody else. I had learned a little more about how to look at the place I was already in.

That evening, Kit and I met by the rain chain. It was silent again. We sat on the wall anyway.

I gave her a printed copy of the report. She gave me half a packet of crisps. Neither gift was proportional to how much I wanted the evening to last.